


First Time

by AZGirl



Series: Musketeers - Season 2 [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode s02e02: An Ordinary Man, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was not the first time his scarf has been used for a purpose other than what was originally intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story combines several ideas I had for a second episode tag… I hope it still makes sense. Enjoy!

**ooooooo**

_“May I?”_ – d’Artagnan to Athos, 2.02 An Ordinary Man 

ooooooo 

As he walked back towards me, d’Artagnan was unwinding my scarf from around his hand. I can still hardly believe what I had just witnessed, yet I’m immensely proud of my friend. It seems like hardly any time has gone by since the Gascon joined us and yet he’s accomplished so much. Given time, I believe my prediction of d’Artagnan’s potential for future greatness might actually come to fruition. 

Beside me, Aramis starts quietly laughing. “Porthos is going to be very sorry he missed that!” He claps a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and says, “Well done, my friend!” 

D’Artagnan’s grin is wide for only a moment before his whole face falls and becomes downcast. He then shakes his head as if denying something before holding up my scarf. I can see that there are several long slits in the fabric obviously made when the younger man brought Gus down from his horse and killed the vile man with his own weapon. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding as if he had just done something unforgiveable. 

“It’s of no consequence”—I grab his hand, turning it palm up to check for any injuries—“as long as your hand was not harmed.” 

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan says much too quickly for my liking as he yanks his hand away from mine. It’s obvious to me that he’s hiding some type of hurt. Whether it be a physical or not, only time will tell. 

“Come,” I say as I head towards the horses, “we must catch up to Porthos and the King.” 

D’Artagnan follows along on my heels. With my scarf still in hand, he says, “I can try to fix it later, or if you prefer, I can buy you a new one.” 

“No need. It’s not the first time my scarf”—I take it and hastily wrap it around my neck—“has been needed for a purpose other than what was originally intended, and I doubt it will be the last.” 

My friend raises an eyebrow at my words, but instead of explaining, I tilt my head in the direction of Gus’s horse. At first, d’Artagnan looks confused, but then when realization hits, he dashes away. It’s obvious the Gascon is exhausted, and I wish I could let him rest for a few minutes, but we must get the King back to Paris in time for the Dauphin’s christening. Perhaps when I get a chance, I can tell d’Artagnan the story behind my comment. 

ooooooo 

Catching up to Porthos and the King – I refuse to acknowledge _her_ any more than I have to – is only a matter of a couple of miles of hard riding. 

I choose to remain at the back as rear guard with Porthos taking the lead and Aramis and d’Artagnan on either side of King Louis. 

In any other circumstance, I would have been in the lead, but I can’t abide the idea of that _woman_ being behind me where I can’t see what she’s doing. It’s bad enough that she is riding next to the King and that he pardoned her for her crimes. I was hoping that I would never see her again, but it seems we are condemned to remain in each other’s orbits until one or both of us is dead. 

As we continue to ride, my desire to drink myself into oblivion continues to increase. Since I exiled her, I have been doing better about how much wine I consume on any given day. So much of the weight that I had been carrying had been lifted off my shoulders that I haven’t needed to drink as much, though the risks Aramis continues to take in regards to the Dauphin have prompted an extra glass or two of wine recently. But now, my body is absolutely craving it and I’m convinced it’s all because of her. I shudder to think what schemes she will come up with to endanger not only my life but those of my brothers. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan rolling his shoulders a certain way draws my attention away from her. It’s a gesture I recognize and it tells me that, at the very least, the Gascon’s shoulder and back muscles have been severely overtaxed. When this is all over, I must remember to have Aramis check on him. 

Seeing d’Artagnan alive and mostly whole on the road ahead of me almost wipes out the despair that had nearly overwhelmed me as we searched for him and the King. 

With a shudder, my thoughts wander back to when we had just begun our search. The tavern owner’s speculation that our missing were robbed and thrown into the Seine made me sick to my stomach. I had to bow my head to keep that man from seeing just how much the possibility of d’Artagnan’s death affected me. 

I felt heartsick at the thought d’Artagnan could be gone from our lives and refused to believe it was true until I had absolute proof. It took a lot of self-control for me to adhere to my own head-over-heart advice and continue our investigation. 

At the morgue, when the attendant, Poupart, said that he had a body matching the description Aramis had given for our missing, my stomach dropped in dread. My feet became rooted to the spot and my thoughts scattered. Despair grabbed at my heart and squeezed it, making it almost impossible for me to breathe properly. 

I didn’t want to even think it, but optimism had never really been a particular talent of mine, not when violence has torn so many of my friends and loved ones away from me. It took all I had within me to force my feet to move in the direction of the body Poupart was heading towards. I was vaguely surprised to see that Aramis was only a few steps ahead of me. I thought for sure that more time had passed. 

When the sheet was pulled back and we were confronted with the face of a stranger, the relief I felt could not be measured. However, that sense of relief was surpassed the next day when we were finally reunited with d’Artagnan. 

Duty dictated that I first ask about the King, but make no mistake I was overjoyed to see d’Artagnan again. The subsequent appearance of that _woman_ and the idea that she had saved not only the King’s life but d’Artagnan’s as well seemed highly improbable to me even after my friend confirmed it. Despite our…difficulties, I am thankful for what she did, but no matter what I will not trust her. 

ooooooo 

The fact that my thoughts have come back around to that woman greatly irritates me, and I struggle to tear them away again. When I adjust my scarf so that it rests more comfortably around my neck, I am reminded of the newest function d’Artagnan has found for it. As a guard against injury, it was definitely a novel use of the sturdy material. 

I first started wearing a scarf shortly after gaining my commission with the Musketeers. Standing for hours on parade out in the blazing sun had been hell on my fair skin, leaving my upper chest and neck almost perpetually sunburned. Eventually my alcohol-soaked brain decided that a scarf would be a good idea to help protect myself from the sun. I bought one of good quality material and have rarely been without since. It’s also proved useful in the winter months as extra protection against the cold. 

At that time in my life, I spent more hours drunk than sober; I also spent more hours hung over on duty than I would ever care to admit. I wasn’t interested in making friends, and I didn’t make note of what anyone thought about me. What I wanted most as a Musketeer was a quick death in service to my country. 

I spent most of my nights alone in one tavern or another drinking to forget or drinking to punish myself for all that I had lost. This was before I had become friends with Aramis and Porthos, when I was content not to care about anyone or have anyone care about me. Solitude was preferable over the companionship of my fellow Musketeers. My only concern was when the next bottle of wine was coming. 

What I didn’t realize at the time was that Captain Tréville had been keeping an eye on me beyond what was expected for a commanding officer. 

The week of my father and brother’s birthdays, born two days and thirty years apart, hit me particularly hard that first year. I began to drink more heavily than usual, sometimes paying various barkeeps to let me sleep it off in the tavern rather than trying to stumble back to my quarters. 

On the fourth or fifth night in a row that I had been drinking to excess, I had just finished my third bottle of wine and had decided that my brain was sufficiently numb to be able to sleep. I rested my forehead upon my crossed arms, intending to sleep right there that night, knowing I could easily make it on time to the garrison for muster the next morning. 

I was seconds from away from being asleep when I was grabbed from behind and hauled into an upright position from the tabletop by my scarf. I tried to fight off my attacker, but I was too deep in my cups to really defend myself or even make a strategic retreat. When I stopped struggling, my attacker reveals himself: it’s Tréville. 

He says nothing, letting his expression do all the talking. Chief amongst everything he was silently communicating was his extreme disappointment in me followed closely by anger. It’s amazing how much the look on the captain’s face affected my sobriety and I try to stand, guessing that I’m in a great deal of trouble. 

The captain generously helps me remain standing when I waiver and he roughly tugs on one end of my scarf to get me moving out of the tavern when I remain standing still for too long. He never tries to help me walk back to the garrison except for when I would stray too far off course. When that happens, the captain grabs one end of my scarf and tugs it so that I start heading in the right direction once more. 

I don’t really remember the entire trip back to the garrison or much else from the rest of that night. What obviously still sticks in my mind is Captain Tréville’s expression and how he had used my scarf to lead me home like some recalcitrant child. 

To this day, I’m somewhat embarrassed by that night but credit it for helping me start on my way back towards being a human being again. There were many days thereafter that I failed in that endeavor, but it did get me to break out of my self-imposed isolation, which I’m sure Aramis and Porthos are eternally thankful. 

I _definitely_ remember the extremely vociferous dressing down I received the next morning in Captain Tréville’s office. Though I would never confess this to him, to this day I’m still convinced that the captain could be heard all the way to the palace. The less said about the type and duration of the punishment I had received for missing out on my assigned duty the better. 

ooooooo 

“That was the first time someone had used my scarf for a means other than it was originally intended and obviously it has not been the last,” I said with a tilt of my head towards my companion. 

“I’m guessing Aramis and Porthos have each commandeered your scarf more than once,” d’Artagnan said with a smile as he continued working. 

D’Artagnan had shown up earlier in the evening with a needle and spool of thread, determined to fix the scarf that he had damaged. I tried to convince him that it was not at all necessary, but he insisted, saying he no longer had the money to buy a replacement. After all he’d been through recently I couldn’t find it within myself to deny him. 

Besides, it had been the perfect opportunity to share with him the remembrance I had used to distract myself while riding back towards Paris. And, if I were honest with myself, his presence was keeping me from drinking too much and brooding upon the return of that woman. 

“Indeed,” I replied, trying not to smile. “In the past five years, I’ve had to replace it at least a dozen times.” 

“Let me guess,” d’Artagnan said, lifting his eyes up from the final tear he was repairing. “Aramis has used it as a bandage and Porthos as a weapon.” 

“Just so.” 

Over the years, both Porthos and Aramis had offered to replace the scarves that they had ruined, but the expense of the fabric might have given away my higher status. Instead, I always had them make it up to me by buying the drinks for a night or two. 

After the second or third time my scarf had been destroyed, I decided it might be prudent to purchase several spares to keep in my quarters as an alternative to trudging all over the city trying to find a suitable replacement. D’Artagnan didn’t know it, but I had three scarves identical to the one he was holding in his hands. 

“And what out of the ordinary uses have _you_ found for your scarf besides…” 

D’Artagnan suddenly trailed off; when I looked up from pouring more wine into our cups, I saw that he was frozen mid-stitch and his face was guilt-stricken. I titled my head and raised my eyebrow in hopes that he would continue but he did not. 

“Besides?” 

The Gascon shook his head and resumed his sewing, seemingly focusing all his attention on it. 

“D’Artagnan.” 

His shoulders slumped; without looking up, d’Artagnan said, “Besides hiding your locket.” 

My hand strays to my neck of its own accord. Exiling that woman had removed my need to wear the locket any longer. However, since seeing her again, the weight of it has returned though the chain itself was long gone. 

“Athos, it’s my fault that she’s back in our lives. I should’ve found a way to save the King without her.” 

“Peace, d’Artagnan. From what you’ve reported, you didn’t have much choice. You did the best you could under the circumstances and kept yourself and the King alive. I’m grateful she helped to save your lives even if it was for her own gain.” He held up a hand to prevent his friend from interrupting. “But, if she makes a move against us, we will take care of it together. Understood?” 

D’Artagnan looked at me as if he were searching for something. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes.” 

He then picked up his main gauche and cut some excess thread from my scarf. Holding it up, he said, “Done.” 

I reached across my small table and took it from him. Examining it, I found that it was difficult to tell where the tears in the fabric had once been. 

“Thank you.” 

“It was the least I could do.” 

I smiled slightly as I wrapped the material around my neck. 

“When you said ‘ _May I?’_ … That was the first time anyone has been so polite about filching my scarf.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been told by readers in the past that first person POV stories are not their favorite or very popular, but I couldn’t conceive of any other way to write this, so I really appreciate you sticking with me until the end. :D
> 
> No beta; mistakes are inevitable. Also posted on fanfiction.net.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
